


think pink on the long, long road ahead

by chartreuseocean



Category: The Worst Witch (TV 2017), The Worst Witch - All Media Types
Genre: F/F, Fluff and Angst, Introspection, Post-Season/Series 03, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2019-11-05
Packaged: 2021-01-21 04:14:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21293468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chartreuseocean/pseuds/chartreuseocean
Summary: Post season 3 finale. HB is free. She goes to the only other place she knows.
Relationships: Hardbroom & Indigo Moon, Hardbroom/Pentangle (Worst Witch)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 50





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She muses that pink is not a very magical color.

The sun sinks from the darkness of the day. Parts of the wishing storm still lingers, and the clouds are purple against the coral sky, soft and unassuming, as if to beckon her toward her newfound freedom. For a moment she simply stands, rigid and perfectly straight, as the soft breeze sweeps around, brushing one stray strand of wavy hair that has fallen astray from the intricate bun into her eyes. The silence is comforting at last, no longer cruel, taunting her overwhelming guilt. Miss Bat was right, she thinks; she liked to impose misery on herself. Not liked, exactly, but found it reassuring, as if self-loathing was a higher form of penance.

She is free, and yet she doesn't know how to be. How to leave this place which is now dear to her, and no longer a tower of confinement. How to seek anything else but the routine she has adhered to out of necessity, but has now found familiar. How to seek happiness, as Miss Cackle has instructed her to do. The headmistress has always been a companion, at times a friend, but today she sees Ada Cackle's infinite wisdom, sees that it isn’t the position she holds that makes her worth listening to. 

She has three days all to herself, now that she has made amends, and Indigo has forgiven her far too easily. “You know, Joy, there must be something you want to do, something you dreamed about trapped here all these years. You had friends didn't you, when you brought me here? I’m sure they still remember you, before you…” At that Indigo had trailed off, apologetic, but the meaning was there, plain and unrelenting in its brutality: before she became cold, and hard, and bitterly guarded. 

She has three days, she realizes, and no one she is ready to face. She is not one for spontaneity; she can’t appear before people she had known thirty years ago and hope she can be comfortably affable. She knows that’s not possible, for thirty years is a very long time, and everyone has changed and gone on with their lives, all except her. She has nothing to show and nothing to talk about. In many ways the first year was not so different from this last one. No, she would rather those who had forgotten about her live on, as if these few days hadn’t upturned her life.

The orange sky moulded slowly into a salmon, and is now a distinctive pink, somewhere between a harlequin rose and strawberry ice cream from the park. She muses that pink is not a very magical color, and all these years she has only a handful of references since that day dancing at the park. For a moment she wonders why, why the non-magical world has colors that witches do not; why they have punting boats, and carriages, even though there are faster ways to travel; why they have dancing, and loud music, and pancakes for breakfast instead of gloopy porridge. She despised those things, they are nothing but frivolity, and that seems to be all non-magical people care about. But now she wonders, perhaps those things make them happy. 

The color pink makes them happy. She tests this idea in the back of her mind, and finds it doesn’t rouse any annoyance in her at all. It just is, a fact that is inexplicable, and she finds herself not caring in the least about its irrationality. It is nice, she concedes, tilting her head slightly to feel the twlight on the tip of her nose. Something inside creeps slowly to the surface, and all at once she closes her eyes, her hands shake, and her mind quietens. Ah yes, of course, there is someone who knows her situation, who might be willing to take her in for a few days until Miss Cackle relents and allows her back for classes. But no, she can't possibly entertain the notion; there are a thousand better places to spend the nights than another witching academy. Perhaps she could stay at the park where Indigo did tricks for loose change, or perhaps she could sleep under the trees right on the border of Cackle Academy grounds. Perhaps it is enough, to take one step past the invisible walls that has kept her here, just to know that it is real.

_What a coward you are. True witches are never afraid. _Her mind is forcefully chastising today, and she has done far too many things against her instinct, but even so, she can’t help pondering that it is right, that she is a coward. Not only that, she is a liar, she is in denial. She has lied to herself since the afternoon, told herself that she wants to avoid embarrassment, awkwardness, stiff civility, and that is why she will not go. She loathes modernity, pretentiousness, full-throated laughter of children with nothing to fear, and nothing to lose. She hates Pentangle’s. _That’s mostly true, but not quite, isn’t it? There is something there you do not hate._

She grits her teeth. Fine, she will go, but only for a bed, where magic is free to be used. With a burst of determination and impulsivity, she waves her fingers and transfers, leaving a slight imprint of her presence on the damp grass, and a smiling Ada Cackle watching from the window.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She is here to ask a favor after all, but she already knows the answer.

The sandstone walls outside Pippa’s office shimmer. She runs a careful hand over the surface, and finds it has been enchanted to make it smooth. _Of course, of course she would do that_. The little door that is just tall enough for Pippa is, of course, pink, and painted in white was girlish handwriting, loopy as a broomstick display around the turrets on a blustery day, was “Pippa Pentangle”, complete with a wayward daisy instead of the superscript on the “i”.

The castle is silent. It is summer and sunset comes late into the evening, and no doubt the pupils are already in bed, but Pippa must still be awake, as a sliver of lamplight spills into the corridor where she is standing, and floods the tip of her leather heels where they peek out from her creased dress. _I should have had the sense to change at least, _she internally berates herself. She is here to ask a favor after all, but she already knows the answer. Pippa would never say no, not to anyone who asks with civility and politeness, not even to her, turning up unannounced, when the sky is a consuming blue and the witching hour is near.

It takes more than a moment to realize that she needs to knock. She is entirely unfamiliar, and brings her hand up to a fist, considers pounding on the door, before remmebering that using her knuckles would make it sound more adequate, less imposing. She straightens her spine, lets her chin protrude, and delivers two rapts to the little door in quick succession, over the elabroate loop of the “g”.

“Who is it?” Pippa’s thin, twinkling voice sounds from the inside. She sounds polite, friendly, even though _she _would have immediately made her frustrations known for being disturbed, might even have bellowed at the visitor and scared them into leaving. She opens her mouth to answer, but found that no sound would emerge from her throat. Her vocal cords had stuck together, strained from all the years of tensing in an unnatural fashion, and now they were more firmly adhered than Miss Tapioca’s snail bread with frog spread. At least, she prayed that was the reason.

“Come in anyway,” Pippa sighs cheerfully, rising from the pink mosaic desk. As the knob gave way and she folded her neck as gracefully as possible to fit through the door, Pippa freezes, her eyes wide.

“Hecate.”

Her name sounds like an echo, where from she cannot quite place, but in the silence it reverberates around the spacious office, and into the night, where the full moon looks on from the outside.

She straightens, and Pippa stares. Pippa Pentangle is pretty, and mostly that is what people first notice, then they notice her energy and flittering educational ideas, but often they fail to notice that she is smart, and sharp, and very, very observant. She notices the stray strand of jet black hair, the crinkled silk dress, the asymmetrical collar. She notices that Hecate’s posture is guarded and rigid, but her eyes are failing to convey the same.

It is Pippa who collects herself first. It was always Pippa who was comfortable breaking the silence.

“I heard, about today, about… everything.”

And all of a sudden, everything that she meticulously planned in her head fell away to dissapating dust. There were things she decided not to reveal, things she would say, enough to satisfy Pippa’s unvoiced questions, but fall short of garnering pity. She found herself disintegrating in the stillness of the air.

“I suppose this is the first place you came to. You can’t go back to Cackle’s for a few days can you, definitely not after what Ada said.” At this Pippa chuckled lightly, meeting her dark, unfeeling eyes with teasing brown ones.

“No.” It is the first word she’s managed to say since Indigo, and it comes out as a rasp, only now realizing that she is parched, hadn’t had anything to drink since breakfast.

“Stay here then.” It sounds so natural, so easily said, as the words tumble from Pippa’s smiling lips; smiling as if she knew all along, that this is what Hecate is here for, smiling as if she knows how difficult it is to ask, that she might as well have offered first.

Inexplicably, Hecate’s throat tightens, and she feels the pulse of her thumb acutely, pressed into the palm of her hand.

“Unless you have somehwere else…”

She shakes her head imperceptibly, but they both know Pippa already knew. She always knew how much independence meant to Hecate, how agonizing it was for her to even suggest she needs help, never mind outright ask for it.

“Well then, you must be starving. I’ll ask for food. In the meantime, drink this.” A cup of tea appears on the side table, and Pippa pipets a few drops of rosewater into large cup, filled to the top. She holds it out, and Hecate wills her fists to unclench.

Her hands are shaking, joints inflexible, but she manages to hold onto the saucer nontheless. If Pippa notices, she pretends not to.

They sit next to each other on the small lounge in the corner, both sipping at the tea, and yet the silence is not as loud now, not as brittle. Hecate directs her eyes down: at her dress, the carpet, the tuft of black fur left behind by Pippa's familiar, but when she dares take a glance at her friend, their eyes meet, and while her face is frozen and unflinching, Pippa smiles warmly.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heat rises to her cheeks. For one brief moment she wonders why.

The cook at Pentangle's is an actual cook, a chef, someone with common sense and taste bud sensibilities. Miss Hardbroom does not approve of modern magic, probably never will, but surely tradition does not dictate the bland gloop that Miss Tapioca throws together in the pearly hours of the morning. 

Dessert is pink cakes and pink confectionary, of course. As much as the color overwhelms her, sickens her a little as the plates spread out to all corners of the little coffee table, suddenly it means something, to have not tasted anything outside of the basement kitchen of Cackle's Academy since that ice cream day with Indigo. It means something that Pippa has asked for all this food, because she knows. 

That is not to say Miss Hardbroom could not have had anything delivered from the Great Outside, but the only one who had sent gifts all these years was Pippa, and she, being who she was, always thought chocolate and gift baskets terribly cliche, always thought those gifts meant no thought was given to them. As a consequence, Hecate received flowers, or herbs, or sprigs of laurel, occasionally even rare moss for her evolving potions. 

Heat rises to her cheeks. For one brief moment she wonders why, but then it hits her. Even when they weren't speaking, Pippa always sent presents, for Halloween, for Yule, still remembered her birthday. They were never signed, but the packaging was always pink, and the card always smelled of roses. _These were growing toward Cackle's; they must be meant for you. _She had kept every one of the cards, sometimes even wrote replies, but they were never sent.

She is ashamed. 

She was the one who didn't turn up that day after all, that first fateful day of the schism, the war, the dark, cold and bitterly lonely night. She had allowed Pippa to send gifts, but never even indicated that she accepted any of them. She could have flung them out the window for all Pippa knew, and yet they kept coming.

But then again, Pippa always knew her better than she knew herself. 

"You're very preoccupied." Pippa says, her eyebrow arched, munching on a pink glazed donut. "These are the most marvelous things. I just can't stop eating them. If I keep this up I'll have to stop transferring and walk everywhere like non-magic people. It will be the death of my poor legs though, how do they do it?"

These things she says are meant for no one in particular, but Hecate knows this is her way of relieving the tension, not of the room, but of her preoccupied mind.

For the umpteenth time since she arrived, she thinks Pippa is much too nice to her.

"Right, well, if you don't want any more dessert, why don't I show you to your temporary home?" Pippa stands and dusts off her fingers, her lips and cheeks covered in sugar, looking as bright and cheerful as... well, ever.

Hecate nods stiffly, and rises awkwardly from the lounge, palms still sweaty from her earlier musings. Her eyes are glued to a pale orange tea stain on the bubblegum carpet. 

Pippa beams, her smile wider than ever. "Right then, I'll transfer us."

As she brings her hand up to wave her fingers, she suddenly stops. "Oh, wait a minute. Did you bring any belongings? We should get them from the corridor. The students love to congregate outside my office and they are the most sophisticated pranksters."

Hecate swallows, mentally berating herself for this not insignificant oversight. _How could she have just left Cackle's on an impulse? Without changing, without packing. Stupid._

She shakes her head, still studying the discolored patch on the ground. "I... forgot to pack. But I'll manage with this."

"Oh, don't be silly. I'm sure I have some black clothes hiding at the back of my closet, for weddings and whatnot. And they'll suit you fine too; you're always so... formal-looking." Pippa giggles just a little, her eyes twinkling like the sun from a great distance.

And with that, she waves her fingers and takes them to the living quarters, otherwise called the Very Pink Turret of Pentangle's castle.


	4. Chapter 4

The Very Pink Turret is what all Pentangle pupils call Pippa's living quarters, but it is perhaps a misnomer. Yes, there is an extraordinary amount of pink for any one witch, but in fact it is tame compared to the office. It is rather more mellow, with shades of cream, pale yellow, and tangerine. _Like sunset. _

Strange, she had never noticed the sunset enough before to compare it to anything else. 

Pippa strides purposefully, as if the headmistress in her has re-emerged. She is... motherly, firm and unfussy, and not at all like the intimidating, soul-curdling presence of Miss Hardbroom.

"You're in here," she says, opening a little door and gesturing. "This is the closest color theme to black I have."

It is not black, not in the least. It is a dark violet, and there are flowers on every conceivable surface, little bouquets everywhere enchanted with a faint glow. There is a large window, open already in this weather, and the moon is hiding its happiness behind an impassive face. _Funny, I never did notice the moon like this before._

"Here are some clothes. Now before you say anything, black is alright for terrorizing pupils during the day, but I will not have you in black pajamas. It is simply not done. You live in my rooms, those are the rules." Pippa arches her eyebrow teasingly, and a knowing grin perches on the edges of her lips. 

"Your room is purple, so you'll have to be purple too. That's another rule." And with a wave of her hand, Hecate is dressed in something lavender-colored, light, and with lace no less. She huffs with indignation, but it is only half-hearted, and she is tired. So very tired.

She is tired of thirty years of confinement, of thirty years of self-imposed isolation. She is tired to think that her childhood friend will now be Mildred Hubble's, that they will grow up together, and leave her behind. She is tired of staying put, and people going on. She is tired of being left behind.

"Hecate." It's her name again, and it is still an echo, but it doesn't resonate around the walls anymore. It is gentle, meandering.

"You should get some sleep. I'll see you in the morning for breakfast, alright? It's the weekend and most of the staff have gone home."

_Home. _The word stirs something in her, but her mind has already gone into a deep slumber, and she can only nod meekly. 

Pippa blows her a kiss, her smiling eyes crinkling at the edges. 

She unravels her bun with magic, and promptly slips under the covers. This is the first night in a very long while that she has not pored over potions books before bed. _This is the first night since... _she realizes with a start. But then her eyes drift close and she imagines the moon blowing her a kiss from among the stars, just like Pippa.

**Author's Note:**

> R&R, would love to hear suggestions for future chapters!


End file.
